Christmas with the Rogues
by Regina Demonica
Summary: Set in the same world as "The Fears of Tomorrow". 24 one-shots with LA's comic-filming crew, leading right up to Christmas Day. Mostly gentler, light-hearted stories, many focusing on the comic world's lesser-known stars. Jonathan, Harvey, Eddie, Jervis and many more. Who says villains can't have the Christmas spirit? Response to the "Advent Calendar Challenge". AU.
1. Tasting Freedom

**This is my entry for the Advent Calendar Challenge on the Reviews Lounge, Too forum - 24 stories set in the AU 1940s-1960s acting world presented in _The Fears of Tomorrow_, mostly light but occasionally deeper, leading into Christmas. **

**Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine. I'm merely borrowing for a little while.**

* * *

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**1. Tasting Freedom**

When Basil Karlo led him into The Panel Club, Jonathan Crane was stunned by all the noises and smells coming from the restaurant. Fresh food, the tang of freshly poured brandy, the thrum of a saxophone, the stench of cigarette smoke. He could feel his mouth water. And the people! The club was one of the larger ones, and there seemed to be more than the entire population of Arlen there. Thin and haggard-looking, he felt very aware of how striking he must have been among the club's well-to-do patrons, including his new companion. He approached curiously, Basil holding his arm, and sniffed the air. On the train, the only things he'd eaten had been a couple of biscuits, and seeing what was on offer here he felt positively starved.

"You know I can't afford this. I only have a little bit of money." He showed his pockets, revealing a couple of fivers and a quarter, and heard his stomach growl. He sighed. He'd had more when he left Arlen, but survival had cost more than he'd thought it would, and he was new to paid labor.

"Well, Mr. Crane, you weren't listening very well earlier, were you?" Basil laughed, but not unkindly, stroking Jonathan's back. "Your supper's on me, and I've got a fresh pay. Feel free to order whatever you want."

"Anything?" Jonathan's eyes lit greedily and he gave a sly grin, licking his lips. "Anything at all?"

"Anything. Consider it my treat to you."

Jonathan nodded, eyeing the menu that was passed to him. Back home in Arlen, he hadn't gotten much to eat. Hateful old Granny Keeny had seen to that, giving him enough food to stay standing but keeping him hungry enough to remain under her control. Now, of course, he was free, and his empty stomach wouldn't be empty for very much longer. Basil showed him to a row of barstools and he found a seat, crawling up and onto it, long legs brushing the floor. The bartender, a chunky man whose breath smelled of alcohol, stopped beside him.

"New here, ain't you?" he remarked when he saw the stranger.

"That's right," Jonathan agreed with a nod. "Name's Jonathan Crane. I work at the studio close by."

"You do comics, then?" The bartender laughed, Basil and Jonathan joining in. "We see lots of your people here. Fancy anything, Mr. Crane? "

"I'm looking for a bite to eat. I've been travelling a long way to get here."

"You sure do need a bite to eat! Yer practically skin and bones!" The man poked Crane in the shoulder, ignoring the look he got. "So, what would you like?"

Jonathan ran an eye over the menu, grinning wolfishly as he examined the food available. "I'll have a ham and cheese sandwich, sir. Two of them. With a fried chicken leg, if you please, with some pickles on the side. A little brandy for my drink." He didn't particularly like alcohol, but tonight he was willing to make an exception.

"Sandwich, brandy, chicken, pickles. Anything else?"

"A salad would be nice. If you have some rolls, I'll take a few."

"Now, Jonathan, I think that's quite enough," Basil said worriedly. Jonathan brushed off his concern. He intended to enjoy his new freedom to the fullest. "You can't eat all of _that_."

But he did. He didn't know quite how he'd done it himself, but he ate every last scrap of his dinner. He felt the fullest he'd ever been, aware of a growing pain in his gut that brought a grin to his face. Far from upsetting him, it reminded him of the feast sitting in his stomach. His days of starving and living off the dregs were over.

When they made it back to the studio and his shared room, he spent the whole of the night lounging in his room as his meal slowly digested. He had eaten so much and so fast that he felt a little sick afterward, keeping him awake.

But surely a taste of freedom was worth it, eh?


	2. Monopoly Night

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**2. Monopoly Night**

"I said, I call the little metal car!" Jervis Tetch grabbed the piece and clasped it protectively. "I'm always the car."

"You were the car last time!" Eddie Nygma said as he reached for the battleship. "Before that, you were the hat, and we still haven't found it!" Harvey Dent rummaged in the box for the rules. He considered himself above such things, but his legal expertise was often called on to sort out disputes between his friends.

On Monopoly Night, the room was always packed. Jervis and Eddie played alongside Joe Coyne, who had attempted to use one of his pennies as his gaming piece but settled for the shoe, and Basil Karlo, who played for the sake of being social and had chosen the dog. Jonathan Crane, ever aloof, sat on a wooden chair reading his copy of _Ulysses_. His purpose in the game was making sure that no one, especially Eddie, cheated.

"Can we start the stupid game already?" Joe said. "We don't have all day, dammit."

"Why does Jonny have to watch me?" Eddie set up the board as Jervis pretended to drive the little car and made _vroom_ sounds.

"Because we caught you sneaking money from the bank last time," Harvey replied dryly.

"That's not true!"

"Joe saw you," snapped Harvey. "Jonathan's just going to guard the bank this time."

Eddie scowled, but crouched as the game began. _Monopoly_ games had a tendency to drag at the best of times, and with this particular crew they dragged for hours, if not days. Joe grabbed Eddie as he tried to swipe a few hundred dollars from the bank. Jervis didn't even seem to bother, quickly buying up the railroads and playing with his silly metal car. Basil sighed and tried to carry on as best he could.

"You moved an extra space!" Harvey barked.

"What?" Eddie looked up, faking innocence. "I didn't do anything! Did I, Jonathan?"

Jonathan grunted, holding up his book. "Quiet, Eddie. I'm trying to read."

"Can you put down that book and pay attention, Crane? You are the worst bank guard in human history!" Harvey accused, frustrated, throwing the rules to the ground. Startled, Jervis dropped the car, snatching it up before it hit the floor.

"I am paying attention. You asked me to watch the bank, not the board. Be consistent, or be quiet and let me read. This book is infinitely better company than any of _you_."

The four struggled on, Joe alternately threatening and negotiating with Eddie while Jervis slowly bought up property, filling the board with his hotels and draining the other three of their profits. It wasn't until Eddie ended up bankrupt that he realized what had happened, followed by Joe and Basil.

"Well, I'll be damned. Tetch actually won." Eddie was stunned, and so was Joe. "How did that happen? I thought he was just playing with his silly little car."

"I may be mad," Jervis quoted, "but there is method in it."

"Method, feh. I call a new game," Eddie announced, looking to restore his injured ego. "Who's up for _Clue_?"

Jonathan looked up from _Ulysses_, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "Don't forget, Nygma, _I'm_ always Professor Plum."


	3. Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**3. Dreaming of a White Christmas**

Unfortunately for Victor Fries and his wife, there wasn't much snow in Los Angeles. There wasn't even much of a winter in Los Angeles. This suited some people - Jonathan Crane, having been born and raised under the hot Georgia sun, didn't care for the cold one bit, and Pamela Isley found the warm weather all the better to grow her beloved plants in. But winter in the city wasn't much of a winter at all. After work, after all the sets had been cleaned up and everyone went their seperate ways, Victor would find the window and look outside.

His wife, even if she didn't _really_ spend her days frozen in a block of ice with a terminal illness, wanted to see the snow. Victor had tried his best to please her - having a handheld freeze ray helped on that account - but it didn't work. She wanted natural snow.

"Hey, Vic. What's up? How's Nora?"

Paul Dekker. Perky wannabe artist, ever-optimistic, and atrocious dresser. He stood beside Victor, trying to look out the window. "Nice weather, ain't it? Ah, I know. You don't like the warmth. Shame."

Victor tried to ignore him. It usually worked. Dekker, however, was incorrigible.

"Say, Vic, cheer up. It's gettin' close to Christmas. Good will to all men and that stuff. Where's your holiday spirit?" Dekker smiled, knowing what would probably get Mr. Freeze's attention. "You know what they're saying on the weather report? 30 percent chance of a freak snowstorm tonight. Just telling you. Nora would probably like to know, too. Why don't you go tell her, eh?"

Victor, reminding himself to get out of his clunky Mr. Freeze suit, lumbered off to find his room. Dekker wasn't very well known for telling the truth. Crazy Quilt was lucky that he didn't have his freeze ray on him.

Nora had been busy, it turned out. After filming was finished, she'd gone to a local knickknack shop and bought a pretty snowglobe with a reindeer and a miniature Santa in it. Victor found it very nice-looking, especially when she shook it and white dust swirled around.

"Second-best, eh, dear?"

"What do you mean by 'second best', Victor?" she chided gently as she put it on a shelf. "I spent half my pay on this ornament."

Dekker, standing in the doorway, coughed. "Looks like the two lovebirds can't see what's going on. Look behind you, Victor. You thought I was a liar, didn't you?"

Victor looked, and there, outside the window, reflected in the red glare of his glasses, was falling snow. Maybe not a snowstorm, but enough for a couple inches at least. Nora grabbed him, ignoring the bulky costume. "Thank you, Victor. See, it does snow in Los Angeles, it does!"

Paul Dekker watched the two with a mix of happiness and disgust. "The weather people know what they're talking about. Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds to it." He rolled his eyes, shutting the door. "I'll have to thank the Weather Wizard for helping us out later. Lord, what the holidays do to people."


	4. Get Cracking

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**4. Get Cracking**

Jonathan Crane peered into the darkness of the cabinet, watching boredly as Jervis Tetch rummaged around inside, putting aside bottles of champagne and a box of Christmas pudding. The shorter man eventually came out with a box of long colorful paper objects, putting them down on the wood table. Judging from the rattling Jonathan heard from the depths of the container, there was something inside.

"What are those?" he asked, genuinely curious. He hadn't seen anything like them before. Jervis had all kinds of odd things lying around, some from his old home in England.

"Oh." Jervis laughed slightly, fetching a pair of scissors. "These are Christmas crackers. Heard of them?" Jonathan shook his head. "Well, it's about time you found out."

Jonathan held the box steady while Jervis sliced it open, taking out a green paper cracker. "We use these back where I came from. It's a holiday tradition. Here, take one end and I'll take the other." Noticing Jonathan's skeptical expression, he added, "Come on, Jonny, they don't bite."

"They don't bite," Jonathan remarked, "but my concern is that they might do something else."

"What?" Jervis grinned, taking his side of the cracker. "Technically, we're supposed to save these for Christmas Day, but I like you, so we'll be doing this early."

"I'm honored," grumbled Jonathan, but he took his side. "I hope whatever's in here is worth it."

Jervis nodded, although he was clearly eager to get on with the pulling. "Oh, don't worry, it will be. Now, come on. Let's get cracking. On a one, two, three!"

Crane yanked his side as hard as he could while Jervis did the same, and the cracker suddenly exploded with a sharp _bang_, startling Jonathan. He shook his head as his ears regained balance. Most of the cracker was still in his hand, part of it singed. He even thought he could smell smoke in the air. For such a little cracker, it sure packed a punch.

"You won, Jonny!" Jervis ran over, as perky as always. "That means anything that's in the cracker is yours. Let's see what you got."

Crane carefully picked the prizes out of the partly-shredded cracker. There wasn't anything terribly impressive - a plastic spider, a rather unoriginal joke about a 'toad truck', and a yellow, crudely cut paper crown.

"Put it on," Jervis suggested cheerily. "I want to see how it looks on you."

Jonathan's voice was pure acid. "_No_."

"Aw, c'mon! Just this once."

Jonathan looked at the silly thing in his hands. He'd never live this down. However bad the prizes were, he _had_ won Tetch's game, and this was the badge of a winner. Following that reasoning, it surely wouldn't hurt to wear it for a little while.

For the rest of the day, everyone in the studio had the opportunity to see Jonathan Crane wearing a yellow paper crown on his head. However, everyone in the studio was sensible enough not to mention it to him.


	5. Holy Christmas Tree, Batman!

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**5. Holy Christmas Tree, Batman!**

"Only you could make it so difficult to pick out a crummy Christmas tree, Eddie!" Harvey Dent, clad in a green scarf and blue jacket, trudged through the snow. He didn't like cold very much, and tonight Eddie had dragged him up to North California to buy a Christmas tree. "I'm starting to think Pam Isley had a point when she wanted us to buy one of those newfangled aluminum models."

"Aw, c'mon, Harv, you know the holidays aren't the same without the real thing. We have to get it early, so we can set it up." Eddie Nygma, in contrast, didn't seem to care, pestering Dent with commentary and not even bothering with winter clothes. "We'll ask Crane if we can borrow Craw to help us set up the ornaments."

Harvey pulled his scarf a little closer. "I just hope no one lets Garfield Lynns anywhere near the tree. Those things catch fire so fast it isn't even funny."

"Yeah. I remember when Waylon had to drag that nutcase off before he could set a match to it. I think Firefly needs help." Eddie sighed, remembering.

"There's our place." Harvey gestured to a sign marked "GEORGE'S CHRISTMAS TREES - CHEAPEST IN THE STATE". He set off to go, ushering Eddie on. "Come on, Ed! What is it now?"

Eddie poked one of the trees, surprised by how dry it felt. "Uh, Harv, you sure this is the place we want?"

"Sure I'm sure. We want Christmas trees, they sell Christmas trees. No bones about it. Now come on." Harvey dragged Eddie's arm and practically pulled him into the stand, where they were faced with still more Christmas trees.

"Well," said a bearded man in the center of the clearing with a laugh, "looks like we have a couple of customers lookin' to buy themselves trees." Harvey agreed, pulling out a fistful of dollars.

Eddie continued to look at the trees, noticing that the one he was looking at had half of its needles missing. "Um, Harv? I think these trees are the cheapest in the state for a reason."

"Would you be quiet, Nygma? I'm doing business here! Now, how much does one of these trees of yours cost, George?"

"Fifteen dollars," George replied, watching as Harvey handed over the cash.

"I'm telling you, Harvey, this is a really, really bad idea!" Eddie whispered urgently. "He's a con artist! The trees are losing their needles!"

"For the last time, Edward Nygma, shut up!"

"Fine. Don't say I didn't try." Eddie sighed, kicking a rock in frustration.

Harvey shook George's hand and, together, the three dragged a scrawny-looking tree to the car, a sleek Hudson Wasp parked close by. "Do you have any idea how rude you're being, calling this man a con artist?"

Eddie leaned against a fencepost, shrugging. There was a saying about a fool and his money that sprang to mind. That, and one cheat knew another cheat. George went back to the clearing while Harvey shoved Eddie into the car.

"I don't know why I bothered to take you along," he muttered. Eddie just rolled his eyes and sat in the seat beside his friend. When they finally made it back to Los Angeles, Eddie wasn't the least bit surprised to see that a good quarter of the tree lined the road.

Eddie took Harvey by the hand, noticing how angry the other man looked. "What can I say? I tried to warn you, Harv, but no..."


	6. Little Boy Lost

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**6. Little Boy Lost**

Jonathan Crane's private war against his Great-Granny Keeny was more evenly matched than the outside observer might have thought. Although he was small and fragile, he had become very sly in his resistance, using other students outside her power as pawns. If she sent him to bed without supper, he'd creep into his room and whip out a sandwich from his personal store. If one of his beloved books was burnt or shredded for being "sinful", three more would take its place, smuggled in from outside. He had his ways of listening to sources she couldn't control.

Before he'd died, Grandfather Keeny had bought a radio, which for years lay gathering dust in the attic. Since he had no use for it where he'd gone, Jonathan took it for himself, sneaking it into his corner and plugging it in. Whatever terrible powers the old witch had, whether she could summon crows to scratch and peck him or not, she couldn't control the airwaves. As such, the radio was one of his many sources of freedom. She didn't know that he'd appropriated the old thing, and he didn't want her to find out.

That night, he first checked that she was sleeping, peeping into her room without daring to breathe. She was. Good. Jonathan Crane slipped down into the kitchen like a child's lonely ghost, making himself a few slices of bread and pouring out a few cups of cider. He worked the crops day in and day out. As far as he was concerned, he deserved a fair portion of the food he gathered. As such, he sometimes took his earned amount from their supplies - a slice of pumpkin pie here, an apple there, always making sure that the thief looked more like rats or snakes than a hungry little boy. Occasionally, when he was sent out to the chicken coop instead of being given breakfast, he'd simply serve himself, only taking one or two eggs to avoid raising suspicions. Hearing the depredations blamed on a black snake gave him some amusement. Of course, _he_ knew where the missing eggs had gone, but he'd be a fool to tell.

His stomach rumbled, putting him in real danger of being caught, and he held back a gasp. He was lucky that time, but he took what he needed and disappeared again.

Night was his element, even back then, before he had learned to harness it. He wasn't old enough to exploit it yet, but he knew how powerful the dark was. She couldn't see him. He was free to take what he wanted, move around freely in the old manor, and even escape out the door to get into the movie theater in the neighboring town. If he needed money for tickets, he'd use money traded at school for tutoring local children who didn't know how to read. Jonathan was an experienced bargainer, using the only marketable skill he knew he had.

He crawled onto his bed, feeling a thrill of delight tinged with fear run up his spine. Oh, the trouble he'd be in if he was caught! The little thief would be taken to the crows for sure. Granny Keeny hated thieves. Stealing was against the commandments. Especially stealing during the days leading to Christmas. He fiddled with the radio, listening to music for one moment and taking sloppy bites of his bread, washing it down with the pilfered cider. He enjoyed the cider in particular - it warmed his hands through the cup, and when he swallowed it warmed his throat on the way down, eventually warming his belly when it settled there.

He grabbed a book from his secret store under the bed, a copy of_ The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. Granny Keeny disapproved of his reading "sinful" books, namely anything that wasn't the Bible. To his delight, however, he discovered that the old hypocrite had a small library hidden away in the cellar. Like he did the food stores upstairs, he plundered it at his leisure. Poe, Shelley, Stoker, he devoured them all. The Twain in particular made for excellent escapism, especially since Huck, too, was a poor Southern boy who struggled with an abusive caretaker, and Jonathan could only dream of building a raft and escaping down the Mississippi.

Twain in hand, he flipped through the radio channels. _Little Orphan Annie_? No, too saccharine. _The Lone Ranger_? Never one of his favorites. _The Shadow_? Yes. He did enjoy _The Shadow_, the lurking figure who brought justice and punished evil. Thinking about what the Shadow would do to Granny Keeny gave him a faintly malicious smile.

After the show was finished he switched to music again, turning down the volume for safety's sake. He curled up with _Huckleberry Finn_, sipped his cider, and forgot about his personal hell for a while. Even though he had no Christmas - Santa always skipped over the Keeny manor; perhaps he really _was_ a bad boy - Jonathan held his own little Christmas party, his stomach warm and full of bread and cider while his mind was engrossed in a book.

Even many years later, after that glorious morning when he'd shed the identity of the frightened, lonely little boy like snakeskin, he still kept a soft spot for a cup of warm cider on a winter evening. No one, not even the few friends he had, knew why.


	7. Old Times' Sake

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**7. Old Times' Sake**

Whatever else he was, Jervis Tetch considered himself an Englishman first. Specifically, a Londoner. Therefore, he was as surprised as everyone else when he decided to pack his bags and move to the United States. He chose to make the announcement to his old stage friends one night in early December, inviting all of them to their favorite pub, a small but well-lit establishment, before breaking the news. He dressed his finest for the occasion - a blue overcoat, a black bowtie, and a light green vest and collar.

When they arrived, the place had only a handful of visitors, some scattered around at wooden tables and drinking while others played cards. Jervis found a seat and got some tea before making the announcement to the others.

"Wait, wait, wait." Richard Buckstone, a red-headed man who was one of his oldest friends and workmates, was rightly confused. "You're going to America? To be in _comic books_? I know you're an odd bird, Jerv, but even by your standards -"

Jervis shrugged, delicately sipping his tea. "S'pose so. I won't forget my old mates, though. We had our good times together. Y'know, during the war."

"Bloody Germans blew up my house," muttered Ralph Leary, a lean man to Jervis's left. "Could use some peace and quiet. That's it, right, Jerv?"

"That's part of it."

Jervis couldn't really say why he wanted to leave. Part of it was peace and quiet, yes, but part of it was that he wanted to sample something new. He'd been lucky, all things considered. Unlike Ralph, he still had his old home to live in. All of his precious Lewis Carroll books were safe. There had been people who were much, much worse off than he.

He'd spent most of the war touring the city with Ralph and Richard, singing covers of classic old show tunes to raise the spirits of his countrymen. "Mad Dogs and Englishmen", "The People Upstairs", "Three Cheers For the Undertaker", and all the rest. It wasn't the best-paying job, but Jervis had the heart of an entertainer. He was in it to cheer people up, not for money. He had done his share of air raid drills and running for shelter when the sirens blared. He wanted to do his part to help, even if it was only a little.

"So, what'll you do in comics?" asked Richard, genuinely curious. "I mean, you don't exactly have any special abilities or anything. You're good at stage mechanics, you're a flashy dresser, and you like hats."

Jervis pulled his collar a little closer. "I intend to sign up as one of their supervillains."

"You don't exactly look _scary_, Jerv," Ralph pointed out, a gentle smirk playing on his face.

"Be respectful, Ralph," Jervis retorted, faking snootiness. "I'll have you know you're talking to the terrifying Mad Hatter."

Ralph and Richard burst out laughing when they heard the name, Jervis smiling too. "I knew you read too many of those dratted Alice books for your own good! They did somethin' to your brain, I'd reckon!"

"Nice one, Jerv! Mad Hatter, indeed! Do you have a March Hare, by any chance?"

"'Fraid not," Jervis admitted. "I had my rabbit Dodger a few years ago. But he's dead now. Died of old age during the war."

"Shame," said Richard solemnly. "Well, we can't pretend we won't miss you when you go over the Channel to terrorize the Yanks and stuff. Best of luck to ya, though. _Do_ remember to write."

Jervis nodded excitedly."Oh, come on, you two, I'm not leaving for a couple weeks. I have things to pack, papers to sort out. It's not as if I'm disappearing from the face of the Earth." He fingered the inside of his teacup, staring into it. "I'll miss you lot, too, by the way. We were a good team. Maybe you two can visit sometime. I'm sure I'll have some new friends to show you all."

"Amen," the other two said together.

"We were the best in all of London," Ralph said with a smile. "Good luck over there, Jerv."

Jervis offered a cheerful grin. "It's too early to say good-bye just yet. What do you say to one last song, for old times' sake?" There were grunts of agreement from across the table. "Right, then!"

The trio slung their arms around one another's shoulders, breaking into an old drinking song. "We all go the same way home! So let's be gay and hearty, don't break up the party, and we'll all cling together like the ivy on the old garden wall!"

The other customers looked at them as if all three of the men had gone quite mad.

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**Historical Note: The song used in this chapter is a short selection of "We All Go The Same Way Home", a music hall song written by Harry Castling (1865-1933) and C. W. Murphy (1877-1913) in 1911 and in the US public domain.**


	8. Green Thumbs

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**8. Green Thumbs**

Waylon Jones, better known to the world as Killer Croc, made a strange sight creeping down the hallway with a bunch of red flowers in one clawed hand. Cameron van Cleer, busy cutting out snowflakes to paste on his wall, waved, only to be ignored. Paul Dekker was chatting with the Weather Wizard, although neither saw him. Waylon certainly didn't want to be seen crawling around with poinsettas. The delicate things ruined his ferocious, tough-as-nails image. No one dared to laugh at him, but the sentiment was still there. The laughter was in their eyes instead, which was even worse.

Being a hulking reptile of a man naturally got him a few stares, but usually a growled threat or glower was enough to stop any giggling. He stopped when he saw a pretty red-headed woman draping fake ivy on the railing, her most distingushing mark her green skin. Waylon lifted a hand, looking at his own pasty grayish-green scales.

"Uh, hello there," he said, trying not to seem too frightening and hiding his sharp teeth. "You're that new Isley gal, ain't you?"

She looked up, and Waylon felt deeply embarassed to be seen talking to her. "Yes. And you are? Do make this quick, they put me in charge of decorations. Eddie and Harvey went out to buy a Christmas tree. I told those two idiots to buy an aluminum one. More environmentally sustainable."

Waylon nodded, even though he didn't understand some of what she said. "Well, um, I have something that I'd like to give you, Pam. I know you like plants, and..."

"And what?"

Waylon felt his scales bristle. Why was he suddenly so nervous around her? He was a hulking crocodile-man, death on two legs. Everyone in the studio was scared to death of him. All he had to do was hand over a few flowers, for crying out loud!

"And, uh, I have something I'd like to give you. They're called poinsettas. Pretty things, ain't they?" He held up the flowers, grinning. He hoped that he didn't look too scary.

Despite assumptions, he wasn't _really_ a man-eater. He only threatened people who annoyed him, and that was just to shut them up. It was effective, too. When that pest Jonathan Crane had woken him up as a joke, he'd rammed the thin man against the wall and threatened to rip his head clean off that skinny neck of his if he ever did it again. Crane, who also took pride in his ability to terrify others, now went out of his way to avoid Jones. Despite his ferocious appearance, he felt rather lonely, and sort of regretted terrorizing Jonathan, the only person willing to interact with him. Until now, at least.

Pamela Isely looked at him curiously as she accepted the poinsettas, making Waylon feel even more self-conscious. He could have sworn that he was blushing like a little kid. "Well, thank you, Mister... Mister... what is it again?"

"Waylon Jones, ma'am, but I'll also answer to Killer Croc," he replied with a small bow, a hopeful look in his yellow eyes. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Isley. And I agree with you about the trees. Eddie and Harvey should know better."

"They should," she agreed, returning to decorating. "Aluminum trees are much more ecologically sensitive over the long run. Next time, Waylon, do try not to get real flowers."

Waylon, sensing that the conversation was over, went away, returning after Pam was gone and the decorations finished. Things only got better when he noticed the brilliant red poinsettas - his poinsettas - knotted into the decorations. He smiled, his toothy grin for once not frightening at all.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as alone as he thought.


	9. Passing the Torch

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**9. Passing the Torch**

The day Basil Karlo cleared out his side of their shared room and left, Jonathan Crane didn't really have the energy to run the experiments on his new fear dust that he'd planned. Instead, he found a chair and grabbed his copy of _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, _which he found beside his bed. He didn't remember putting it there, but he could have forgotten. He didn't like it, not in the same way he liked _The Cask of Amontillado_ or _Ulysses_, but it was a book that he felt he had to own for thematic reasons.

Not that he felt there were any connections between himself and Ichabod Crane. Unlike Ichabod, he had no interest whatsoever in marriage. The closest he'd come was an ill-fated attempt as a preteen. It ended badly for both sides - Jonathan ended up the victim of a prank that gained him exactly the wrong kind of attention, and she found a corn snake in her bed the next morning. He considered it a learning experience. She gave him a wide berth ever after.

Also unlike Ichabod, he had faced most of his fears and never backed down from a threat. The only problem was that niggling ornithophobia of his, and that was little more than a nuisance. Now that he'd found a place where he felt he belonged, neither hell nor high water would drive him out.

Not even this, being alone again. He never thought that having a room to himself, something he'd always wanted, would feel so empty. Without Basil, something was missing. A knob turned and he half-expected old Clayface to come wandering in with a tale from his days as a movie monster, sadly disappointed when the intruder turned out to be Jervis Tetch, hat in gloved hand.

"Hello, Jonny. Am I bothering you?"

"Yes," Crane hissed through his teeth.

"Well, then," Jervis said cheerfully, "I'll try not to bother you. I'll just come and write a few letters, if you don't mind. Humphrey Dumpler kicked me out again. He says I'm too messy."

Jonathan sighed, partly relieved by the company, although he would have rather died than admit it. "I have a spare desk. You can work there, provided that you don't talk to me. I'm reading. Why do you want it?"

"I'm writing a few letters to my friends back home in London. Ralph Leary and Richard Buckstone. You probably haven't heard of them."

"You would be correct. Now kindly leave me alone and write your letters." Shrugging, Jonathan went back to Sleepy Hollow, shaking his head at the other Crane's foolishness. _He_ wouldn't have been tricked by a town braggart wielding a pumpkin. Ever the scientist, he didn't believe in ghosts. He and Ichabod Crane couldn't have been more different. He turned a page, seeing an illustration of the gaunt, frightened schoolmaster, his literary twin, being pursued by the ghastly Hessian mounted on horseback (or, as the other Crane knew, Brom Bones disguised as him). The artist had done a spectacular job.

He touched it slightly, feeling something underneath. He dug a hand in, pulling out a small note crammed into the back of the page. It was addressed to him. He put the book away, reading the piece of paper.

_Dear J. C.,_

_Before I left, I had a word with Professor Hugo Strange about your work with him. He says you're doing exceptionally well, and that he expects great things from you in the future. I assure you that you have very little connection to Ichabod here outside of your last name. I hope to see you again. When I do, I wonder how far you'll have come. Consider this a passing of the torch, from one Master of Fear to another._

_Yours,_

_B. K._

_P. S. Look under the bed. I left you a present. _

Instinctively Jonathan knelt, sticking his head underneath. Sure enough, there was a manuscript there, and he quickly whipped it out, drawing Jervis's attention.

"What's that you found, Jonny? Something nice?"

Jonathan nodded wordlessly, reading over the sheets. It was Basil's old script of his great movie, _The Terror_, signed _Basil Karlo, Clayface_ on the title page. Grinning like an idiot, he put the sheets on his special shelf, right beside _Ulysses_.

Good old Basil. Of course he wouldn't leave without a proper goodbye.


	10. Rat Race

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**10. Rat Race**

The film crew divided holiday duties among themselves, different jobs assigned to different people. Pam Isley was given the job of decorating the hallways. Humphrey Dumpler had the task of keeping an eye on Garfield Lynns, who was starting to get twitchy at the sight of so much flammable material, and Harvey Dent had led Edward Nygma out to get a tree.

Jonathan Crane, in a fit of generosity, had lent his crow Craw to help a pack of C-listers with sorting ornaments. Unfortunately, Craw's personality couldn't have been more different from his owner's. While not moonlighting as Crane's bird, he worked for a funny animal comic, and he was a comedian by training. He revelled in pranks and teasing other people, Jonathan a favorite target until the Scarecrow had overcome his fear of birds and lived up to his name.

Now, Jonathan and Craw were friends, in a certain sense of the word. They insulted each other constantly, Craw mocking Crane for having no wings and Crane calling Craw a no-good chiseling lice-ridden sack of feathers. He used the crow to test out his best insults. Unfortunately, Jervis Tetch had led Jonathan off to a cabinet in their shared room. Without Jonathan around to tease, Craw turned his attentions to the people around him. He was incurably lazy, and no one knew how to get him to do anything without Crane to threaten him. The crew, a team of low-ranking actors, had no idea of what to do.

"I ain't doin' nothin," he snorted, beak turned up as he perched on a windowsill. "Ya can't make me."

Cameron van Cleer, Killer Moth, wanted to wait until Jonathan came back to put Craw in his place. This idea was roundly turned down. Crane would be gone for a while. Humphrey Dumpler wanted to force Craw to work. Unfortunately, first they had to catch him, and the bird was very tricky.

Otis Flannegan, the Ratcatcher, seeing a chance to make himself useful, offered his tame rats' services in the crow's place. "Remarkably well-trained creatures," he explained, displaying a large black specimen he'd nicknamed Ben ("after Ben Franklin", as he told everyone). "Amazingly intelligent. And they don't speak a word."

"I get his point," suggested Cameron van Cleer, who was thankfully not wearing his Killer Moth costume, in a rare insightful moment. "If Craw won't do nothin', let's replace him."

"What?" Craw squawked, startled and insulted. "I'm smarter than some stupid rat!"

Shrugging, Otis told Ben to bring a hollowed glass bird out of a box some feet away. The big rat obeyed immediately, dropping the ornament at his feet. "See? Easy as that."

"Show-off," muttered Craw, shifting on his perch. "I can do better than that."

"Please do," Otis challenged, Ben sitting beside him, whiskers twitching. "Consider this a competition. Ben takes the little things to the left side, you take the big ones to the right. May the best animal win."

Ben, as it turned out, was remarkably fast, true to his trainer's word. He gripped smaller ornaments in his teeth, carrying them to his instructed spot. Craw did the same thing, only using his beak and claws. He fumbled a little in the box, putting him at a disadvantage against the smaller, nimbler rat, but his size meant that he could carry more things.

Otis, meanwhile, seemed to find the whole thing very amusing, watching Craw set to work while occasionally giving a command to Ben. The others wondered exactly what he was trying to do. For a C-lister, Ratcatcher was skilled at his niche and intelligent, making them think that he could work his way up if he put more energy into his job than training his rats.

"There! Did it!" Craw put down a red globe ornament just as Ben scurried back with a green one. "Ha! Eat that, Pied Piper!"

"Not quite," Otis pointed out with a triumphant grin. "You said you wouldn't work, and I made you do it. Looks like _I_ win."

Craw's beak dropped as he, and the other C-listers, realized exactly what the actor meant. "Why, you - you dirty _rat_!"


	11. Into the Dragon's Den

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**11. Into the Dragon's Den**

Jonathan Crane nimbly separated himself from the shadows of the hallway, careful not to wake anyone in the rooms he slipped past. He enjoyed being out at night, certainly, and he had tendencies towards the nocturnal, but tonight he had something important to do. He had one last fear of his to cure, and to do that he had to face it. Not that he was looking forward to it, naturally. On the contrary. Although it went against his persona as the self-proclaimed Master of Fear, Pharaoh of Phobias, whatever, he was aware of how frightened he was. His heart was throbbing inside him, and his brain urged him to turn back while he still had a chance to.

As he placed his hand on the doorknob of Room Eight he swallowed loudly. It was now or never. Either he'd deal with this once and for all or end up breakfast by next morning. He hadn't come armed with his toxins to protect himself in case things went wrong. He thought that coming without weapons would show that he'd come with good intentions. The only sound he could hear was his own thin breathing. Trying his best to seem brave, he turned the knob and slipped in. The room was dark, but he he knew that he wasn't alone.

"Waylon? Waylon? Are you there?"

Something big, much bigger than him, was moving around in the room. He heard claws scraping against the floor and heavy breathing as the creature turned around to face the intruder. His instincts took over - he froze. _It's not too late to run_. Holding back his fear, Jonathan held his ground. It was now or never.

"Who is it?" hissed Killer Croc, towering over Jonathan. "Crane? What are you doing here? Brave of you to come."

"Jonathan Crane, Mr. Jones," Jonathan said with a tip of his fedora. "I'm here to, ah, apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

Jonathan laughed anxiously. Surely Waylon knew, and this was a trick to make him let down his guard. "For waking you up that time. You know what I'm talking about. 'If I ever catch you around me again, I'll tear that skinny neck you've got right off your shoulders.' Ring any bells?"

Waylon stared at him, yellow eyes suddenly understanding. "You know how long it's been since I said that? Years."

"Yes, well, I'm rather averse to getting my head bitten off, Jones." Crane relaxed slightly, realizing that he probably wasn't going to be eaten, and indulged briefly in some choice gallows humor. "I taste dreadful, anyway. Too bony, and I don't have much meat on me."

"If you're so scared," Waylon asked, genuinely curious, "why did you come to see me?"

Crane answered slowly. "Two reasons. Firstly, because I'd like to enjoy Christmas dinner without _being_ Christmas dinner. Secondly, because I didn't want us to hate each other over the holidays. 'Tis the season and all that rubbish."

"You think I eat people, Crane? Don't be disgusting. _You_ don't walk around gassing people in the face."

"So we can get along again?" Jonathan asked, relieved and even a little happy. "People like us should stick together."

"Sure. Long as you don't wake me up. Let me sleep now; it's two in the morning. Night, Jonathan."

Crane, thrilled to find that he had entered the lair of his old enemy Waylon Jones and left in one piece, made a small bow and tipped his hat. "Night, Waylon." As he shut the door, he returned to his own room with a bounce in his step. He sincerely hoped that he wasn't succumbing to the holiday silliness infesting his coworkers.

Then again, if it meant staying alive, he could live with it for a while yet.


	12. Without a Clue

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**12. Without A Clue**

"Well, I'll be darned." Eddie Nygma stared at the cards in his hand, realizing what he had to do. "Um... I suggest that Mrs. White did it in the study with the knife."

"You dirty _liar_," Jervis Tetch retorted, holding his piece in one hand. "I'm innocent, and you know it!"

"He's right," Joe Coyne confirmed, flashing a Mrs. White card. "Nice try, Ed."

Jonathan Crane sighed, staring at the ballroom, where Professor Plum was. From the looks of him he was already missing his book. "Can I roll now, please?" Eddie handed him the dice, and he threw a six. "Ah, a good roll. Now let's see here... " He checked his sheet. "We've eliminated myself, Mrs. White, Miss Scarlet, Mrs. Peacock, and... that's it, really for suspects. For rooms, we've crossed off the study, the kitchen, the dining room, the lounge, the conservatory... everything but the study, really. So Nygma was right on that account."

"Weapons?" asked Basil Karlo, playing as Colonel Mustard. He decided to do the job himself. "We've eliminated the gun, the pipe, the rope, and the wrench. That leaves the knife and the candlestick."

"Who would murder someone with a candlestick?" Eddie asked. "I mean, if you had a revolver or a knife in the house, why not use those?"

Jonathan shifted his glasses. "You forget, Nygma, that we are not dealing with a sane mind here."

"Yes, well," Eddie protested, "there's a difference between being insane and being stupid. What I just described is _stupid_."

"Can we just let me roll?" complained Joe, grabbing the dice. "A five. That brings me into the conservatory. A load of good that does me."

"My turn, if you please," Jervis told him, making his roll and moving Miss White into the study with Eddie's piece, Mr. Green. "All right, then. Accuse me, will you? We'll see about that. I suggest that it was Mr. Green in the study with the candlestick."

Jonathan drew a card showing the candlestick. "Nice try, Tetch, but no cigar."

"Darn." Jervis straightened. "Your turn, Bas."

Basil concentrated and made a roll, moving Colonel Mustard into the ballroom. He couldn't do much of anything there, so he passed the dice to Eddie. "Your roll."

Eddie threw the dice. A one. "That's not _fair," _he protested, but straightened. He had a Colonel Mustard card, and the candlestick had been eliminated. _Uh-oh_.

"Any suggestions?" Crane asked, fanning out his cards. Eddie was obviously blushing, Crane gleefully seizing on his weakness. "Well, well, well. Inspector Karlo, it looks like we've caught our killer. Any accusations to make, Mr. Green?"

"This doesn't make any sense. If I was the murderer, why the hell would I expose _myself_?"

"Crisis of conscience?" suggested Jervis, fiddling with his piece.

Eddie thought, trying to figure out a loophole. "Aha! I'm still innocent! Mr. Boddy really had it in for Mr. Green, see, and knifed himself in the study so it would look like I killed him but I really didn't. You're accusing an innocent man, Jonny! It was a suicide!"

"Methinks," Crane quoted with a smirk, "he doth protest too much."

"I'm serious. Why doesn't this fool game have that possibility open? How do we _know_ it was murder?"

"Because that's how the game is," Basil explained boredly. "Jonathan's right. It's better to give yourself up gracefully."

Eddie muttered an oath under his breath, snatching up his piece. "Fine. I accuse Mr. Green in the study with the knife."

Jonathan patted him on the back with a toothy smile. "Good boy. Book him, Basil."


	13. White Rabbits

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**13. White Rabbits**

"What would you like again, Mr. Crane?"

"I said, I'm looking for a rabbit. A white rabbit."

The pet shop worker hadn't expected to get Jonathan Crane as a visitor, but there he was. She couldn't help but be wary about what to do with him. His reputation as a researcher of dubious ethics preceded him. He didn't usually express much liking for the kind of animals that they sold, and little creatures like mice and rabbits would make good meals for the animals he _did_ like. Still, they couldn't turn away Crane based on that alone. He was a paying customer, after all, and her boss wouldn't like her to refuse the order. All the same, Jonathan wasn't to be trusted around small, cute animals. Selling one to him would be a death sentence.

"Mr. Crane, why do you want a rabbit? Do you have any snakes or lizards that you have to feed?" she asked suspiciously, and he shook his head. He'd expected a reaction like this. To be fair, he had used mice in the past - even in Arlen, he'd been an expert mousecatcher, using the pests as bait to lure out the snakes he observed. For the life of him, he didn't know why people liked mice so much. Growing up in the country had taught him that they were terribly destructive creatures.

"Do you always ask people why they want to buy pets? To answer your question, no. I don't own any big reptiles. I'd like to get one - beautiful creatures - but I'm afraid I couldn't fit it in my room and my roommate wouldn't like it. I may consider one of the more manageable species of snake in the future, but today, as I explained before, I need a rabbit. For my own reasons."

This made her suspicious. She knew by rumor the kind of things he got up to. "Experiments?"

Crane looked her in the eye, surprised that she knew about his tinkering. Some fool outside the studio must've been gossiping about it. "I've completed the research on my fear gas. Any more would be unnecessary, a waste of time, and counterproductive. If you're worrying about what I'll do to that animal if you sell it to me -"

She nodded slowly, clearly not believing him, hands wringing behind her desk. She only knew him by what she'd heard off the street, and he matched the description she'd heard - stick-thin, black hair, and, most frightening of all, those cold blue eyes. She couldn't look straight at him. There was something deeply unsettling, even threatening, about him, something that kept her from trusting him and, more importantly, placing a living creature in his care.

Jonathan sighed, reaching for the money in his pocket. He managed a smile, for once not trying to be frightening. "I just can't reassure you based on logic, can I? Let me put it this way, miss. I will _not_ hurt this rabbit, on my honor. If you sell it to me, it will not be sliced, swallowed, gassed, injected, abused, vivisected, or otherwise ill-treated on my watch."

"You really mean that?" she asked, still wary.

He agreed, "Whatever my faults, I keep my word. Your rabbit will not die."

"But you aren't exactly a rabbit kind of person, Mr. Crane."

Jonathan shrugged, handing over the money and watching as she went out back to find a white rabbit for him. "Who says that it's for me?"


	14. Don't Judge a Croc By His Cover

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**14. Don't Judge a Croc By His Cover**

"You know," Waylon Jones said as he watched the others find lunch at the canteen, "sometimes I worry if people only look at us and see our jobs. I mean, there are only so many jobs a crocodile-man can hold."

Otis Flannegan, Ben perched on his shoulder like a parrot, didn't seem bothered by the question. "That's their problem. Sometimes people look at poor Ben here and see a horrible filthy rat. I couldn't find a job before, either. All I could do was train these little fellows. They made us a bit of spare change on the street, but this is my first real job." Ben stood up, whiskers trembling. "I don't care how bad people think I am, long as my rats and I are well taken care of."

"You had it lucky, if you ask me. When I was a boy, they put me in a freak show. It was the only job I could find. The Lizard Man. It was horrible; people came and gawked at me like I wasn't even one of them. Caged me like an animal. Fed me raw meat. Laughed at me. Threw things." Waylon sighed, displaying sharp teeth. "The studio took me when I grew up so I could get proper money and be cared for. All I want is to be treated like a human being, not a monster. I can't help if I was born like this."

Otis smiled warmly, laying an arm on one of the reptile-man's shoulders. Ben scurried onto Waylon's scaly head, fearless. "It's their fault, you know. Making assumptions like that. People fear what they don't understand, or that's too different. I know you're good, and that's what matters." He suddenly seemed to remember something. "Speaking of fear, I heard you made up with Jonny Crane last night."

"He was scared of me, too," Waylon muttered, wringing his claws. "You should've heard some of the things he said, Otis. He was scared for his life. Thought I'd_ eat_ him."

"You wouldn't, would you?"

"Of course not. For starters, I don't know where Jonny's been. Secondly, he's much too thin to be worth the trouble."

Otis laughed - for all the assumptions made about Waylon, he approached them with good humor. "You'd better not tell him that."

"Could you get your rat off of my back? He's making me itch up a storm."

"'Course." Otis whistled sharply and Ben leapt onto his trainer's arm, sitting and wriggling his paws in an imitation of Waylon. "What people see isn't always what's really there. Take Ben. You and I look at him and see a beautiful, well-trained, naturally intelligent animal. Other people see a plague-carrying, filthy, vicious rat. _We_ know what's inside, and that's what matters."

"You're right, Otis. You've always been a smart guy. Y'know what?" Waylon gestured to a skinny man with black hair who was ordering a cup of coffee from the cafeteria lady. He held a box with air holes under one slender arm. "Sometimes I wonder if that's why Jonny's the way he is, too, why he's so mean. People expected it of him for so long that he turned into what they thought he was. I don't have to be like him."

Otis chuckled slightly."Be nice to Crane. He's not bad, just distant and bitter - I've heard that he didn't have a happy past, either. He was caged up, too, in his own way. Somewhere, underneath that angry, cold shell he's built for himself, there's a good man struggling to get out. Or if not good, at least not as crotchety. I've heard that sometimes he can't help himself and a little good comes out in spite of him."

"Sure, I'll be nice to him. I didn't bite his head off when he barged in, did I?" Waylon smiled as Ben playfully sniffed him. "Y'know, Otis, this is a very smart rat you've got. I don't see why _anyone_ would hate old Ben here."

Otis didn't reply, only rubbing the big black rat behind the ears. "Neither do I."


	15. Fading Scars

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**15. Fading Scars**

"What are you doing, Jonny?" Jervis Tetch tried to get a view over his roommate's shoulder. "Writing a letter, I see. Inviting someone over for the holidays. That's nice of you. Who is it?"

"None of your business," Jonathan Crane replied, covering the name on the letter's top. "I doubt he'll come, anyway."

"I told you who I'm inviting over. My old show friends from London. You'll like them. They're a lot of fun." Jervis laughed, coming over to his shelf to grab a copy of _Alice's Adventures In Wonderland_. Crane's copy, technically, before they'd swapped. "We worked together during the war days."

"I'm sure that they'll annoy me as much as you do," Crane replied with a resigned sigh.

Jervis came back over, finding a chair. "Oh, be a sport. I'd think you'd be interested in them. We performed in London during the war. Horrible, horrible times! I spent most of those years scurrying around shelters and dodging rockets. There were times I wasn't sure I'd live to see another day. My mate Ralph's flat was blown to bits by the Germans. Thank goodness he was out! Many others weren't so lucky."

Jonathan nodded, pretending to listen. He'd heard it all before. Maybe, he thought dimly, he and Jervis both had similarities in their pasts. Living in fear, specifically. Jervis had spent his pre-comic career in the heart of the Blitz, struggling to survive. Jonathan spent his childhood locked away in Georgia, living on what little he could trade or steal, doing things no child should have had to do even to live. When he wasn't slippery enough to get away with it, he was punished horribly. He still had scars on his back from her trained crows. They were healing, and he had to look to see them, but they were still there.

That was his greatest fear, he supposed. Not the crows themselves, but what they represented - even now, as an adult, and a fully-fledged Master of Fear at that, he couldn't bear the idea of returning to his old life, being a victim. Prey. That's what he and Jervis had in common. They had both been prey to forces stronger than they were. Jonathan at the mercy of the bullies at school and Granny Keeny's flock at home, Jervis cowering in shelters and waiting for the planes to pass.

"Stop being so somber, Jonny!" Jervis noticed that his friend looked upset, putting an arm around Crane. "Things are better for us now. Everything's tidied up in England. We're sturdy folk. And you... well, things are better for you, too. Count your blessings. You can scare people and get paid for it. No one with a lick of sense would tease you these days. Not unless they had a death wish. Most of all, you have a family now. Eddie and Harvey and Waylon and all the rest. We show people stick together. It's getting close to Christmas. Be _happy_, for heaven's sake!"

Couldn't argue with that. They were a family, if a strange one. Jonathan shrugged the arm off, but gently, and asked, "Mr. Tetch, what would you like for Christmas?"

Jervis sighed, getting on his own bed and reading. "I wish I had a pet. Used to have one back at home - a white rabbit. Dodger. He's dead now, of course." Crane nodded slowly, grabbing his pencil and returning to the letter.

_Dear Mr. Karlo,_

_I am aware that it has been many years since we've last spoken..._


	16. Turkey Day

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**16. Turkey Day**

Harvey Dent had botched his holiday assignment, yes, but he did have his useful points. He was the main ambassador between the people of the studio and the population of the city outside, partly because he didn't usually go out of his way to frighten people and could reliably cover up his nature. Having the ability to deform half of one's face at will had its positive points. So it was decided that, after he and Eddie revealed their sad excuse for a Christmas tree, Harvey would redeem himself to the rest of the film crew by going out and getting the turkey. It was Eddie's idea.

So off he went, seeing Jonathan Crane leaning beside the door. The thin man was sneaking a cup of hot cider, smiling for once. Not in a creepy or frightening way, either. He looked up on seeing Harvey, waving. Harvey, reasoning that a chat wouldn't hurt, stopped to talk to him.

"Say, Harvey," he said between sips, "heard you and Eddie lost the tree."

"I didn't lose it. We brought it back, well, _most_ of it."

Jonathan nodded. "There's a difference there. You'd better not mess this up." He chuckled, taking another swig of cider. "This is good stuff. If you want some, visit the cafeteria. It's on discount today."

Harvey sighed. He did like cider, but he had to make up for the business with the tree, or he'd never hear the end of it from Eddie. "No thanks, Jonathan. Do you know the nearest place where I can buy a turkey?"

"There's a supermarket not far from here. Do try not to cause a scene. Remember what happened last time."

"_You_ can talk, Crane," Harvey snapped, "and that wasn't my fault. That girl cut me and I was trying to scare her off."

Jonathan completely turned his attention to his drink with a shrug, his way of saying that the conversation was over.

"Some help you are." Leaving Jonathan behind, Harvey rummaged for a map in his coat pocket. Crane had been right. There was a Food-O-Mat very close to the studio, just a few minutes' way. As he walked along the street, he noticed that snow was falling from the sky, slowly at first but gathering pace. Odd weather. It almost never snowed in Los Angeles. "Day's getting stranger and stranger," he mumbled. "Crane's acting all cheery and snow's falling. What's next?"

Once he found the supermarket, Harvey went in, heading straight for the food and searching the meat section for a turkey. The crew had insisted on the biggest he could find. It was for the good of everyone. Some of them, like Waylon, had a special taste for meat and treated themselves to multiple helpings. He found what he wanted near the end of the row, a marvellously bloated thing twice the size of a man's head. He wasn't a weak man, but he struggled with the thing, panting as he shoved it in a bag and dragged it to the register.

"You gonna eat that by yourself?" asked the man at the cashier, eyeing the turkey skeptically. "Reckon that thing could last you through all twelve days of Christmas."

"I doubt it. Not with my friends," Harvey joked, handing over the cash. "Some of them can really eat."

"Must be a fun crowd."

Harvey nodded, smiling slightly. "They sure are. The whole crowd of 'em." He put the turkey back in the bag and cursed, wishing he'd taken the car instead.

But he did make it and, a few bruises aside, the turkey was intact, ready to be cooked and eaten. Harvey handed it over to Cameron van Cleer who, glad to be useful, took it to the kitchen for storage. As Crane came in, having drunk his cider, the whole crew watched Eddie and Waylon put up the three-quarters of a tree that they'd managed to save. As they did so, another quarter fell away, covering the ground of the main room, leaving a very odd-looking tree: half with needles and half without.

"Hey, Two-Face!" Eddie shouted. "That tree looks a bit like you!"

When he heard the other actors laughing to a man, an embarrassed Harvey Dent protested, "Well, I brought the turkey back in one piece, didn't I?"


	17. Let Nothing You Dismay

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**17. Let Nothing You Dismay**

"Well! Of course you're going, Paul. Jonathan was kind enough to send you an invitation."

Paul Herold sat at the table, nervously fingering a spoon. He could smell dinner in the air - chicken broth, a winter favorite for his family. He respected his wife's opinion, but he was looking forward to a Christmas spent at home. The last thing he expected was a letter in the mail from one of his former workmates asking him to come to the studio for a Christmas party. Not just any workmate, either. It just _had_ to be Jonathan Crane. Although he'd only had the experience of running into Jonathan a few times off hours, he knew the man well enough to guess at his motives.

"He didn't do it because he likes me, Mary. He doesn't have a kind bone in his body. He's got some nasty trick in mind for me."

"You're just mad at him 'cause he killed you off in the comics," piped up his young son, Phillip, who was sitting at the table and waiting for dinner. Phillip, in contrast to his father, was absolutely unafraid of Crane, seeing the thin man the way other little boys saw lions and tigers - exotic, dangerous, and awe-inspiring. Of course, Crane hadn't really killed Herold (the effects had been done with a blank), seeing as he was still alive to be invited to the studio for Christmas.

"I'm not mad at him," Paul corrected, "I just don't like him. He may not have actually harmed me, but he took too much pleasure in what he did do for comfort."

Mary Herold patted her husband on the back. "I'm sure Jonathan will behave himself for Christmas."

"You don't know him the way I do," sighed Paul, standing to find a cup. "Jonathan Crane is not a nice man, and I don't want anything to do with him if I can help it."

"Aw, Dad," protested Phil, "at least let me talk to him! He sounds like someone who's really exciting to know."

"Phillip," Paul told his son sternly, "you are not talk to or go anywhere near him. He's dangerous."

Mary, checking the broth in the kitchen, was aghast. "Good gracious, Paul! Whatever Mr. Crane's faults, I doubt that he'd lay a finger on Phil. I have it on good word from a friend at the studio that the man gives money to the orphanage, for crying out loud! Anonymously, but still!" Well, that was a surprise. He knew that Crane could rarely show protective tendencies towards the few people he cared about, but why would he care about orphans and abused kids?

"Well, I don't trust him, and I don't know why you're defending him. Stay away from him, Phil."

Phil nodded, but his eyes told quite another story. Paul should have known how stupid it was to warn a boy of that age of danger. He wouldn't be surprised if the first thing Phil would do at the party was find Crane and shake his hand. "He can't be that bad. You came back all right."

"Doesn't mean I want anything to do with him." Paul poured out a cup of wine - anything to get his mind off of Jonathan Crane and that invitation.

Coming back inside, Mary cleared old glasses and dishes off the table before bringing in three steaming-hot plates of chicken broth. "Christmas is a time of forgiveness, Paul. I'm sure Jonathan knows that as well as you do. Besides, he could tell you how things are back at the studio."

"Trouble with being an extra. We lose track of things." Paul gestured dismissively before sipping his wine. "I suppose you're right. Besides, Jonathan won't try anything too intense with all those people around. He's nasty, but the smart kind of nasty."

Phil instantly perked up in his seat, eyes bright. "Can I come too, Dad? Please? I wanna see Mister Crane!"

Paul Herold coughed into his sleeve, hoping that his confidence in Mary's view of the situation wasn't misplaced. He did have a few friends there that he wouldn't mind seeing. "I suppose so. Just stay close to me - I'm sure we'll run into him soon enough."

As he looked into his drink, he only wished that he had his son's innocence and fearlessness.


	18. Snowball Fight

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**18. Snowball Fight**

"Let me get this straight. You invited Herold? He's scared stiff of you!"

Jonathan Crane shrugged while staring out the window, not bothering to turn around. "It's been a while since I last saw him. He's married with a son now, I've heard. I'm interested in seeing how things have changed for him. Curiosity."

Jervis Tetch, trembling with excitement at the coming party, joined him. "You know what they say about curiosity?"

"Don't you spout that hoary old cliche at me."

"As long as you don't bother Paul. Christmas truce and all that, old mate."

"Fine. So," Jonathan asked, stretching, "who else is coming?"

"Pretty much everyone on the B and C-List. Herold is, as far as I know, the only extra who'll attend - if he accepts your invitation. Harvey's bringing Gilda Gold along. We've got a few trainees, too. I just hope Alan doesn't shove political philosophy down everyone's throats."

Jonathan coughed into his sleeve. He'd had several _interesting_ discussions with Alan Grant, stage name Anarky, on Machiavellian philosophy and its implementation in governments throughout history. "Right. That's very likely. Meanwhile, pigs will learn to fly, hell will freeze over, and, as Cameron would add, the Chicago Cubs will win the World Series."

"Cheerful fellow, aren't you?" Jervis noticed something from the window, pointing. "Well, Jonny! Would you have a look at that! It's snowing."

Jonathan squinted, not half as glad to see the falling white specks sticking to the ground. "So it is."

"Funny. It never snows around here. Must be a Christmas miracle." Jervis left the window, looking back for a moment. Jonathan hadn't moved. "Want to go outside and do something fun, Jonny?"

His voice positively dripping with sarcasm, Jonathan sighed, "Ah, yes. Freezing to death. What _fun_."

Jervis had admittedly expected that. Partly thanks to his Georgia upbringing, Jonathan had a dislike for the cold and avoided it whenever possible. "Suit yourself." He could find someone else to play with if Crane didn't want to. Leaving his friend behind, he slipped out the door, only to have a snowball smash against his coat.

"All right," he asked, brushing it off."Who did that? Eddie?"

"Nope!" Paul Dekker darted out from behind a building, grinning like a loon and holding another snowball. "Good guess, though. It's Crazy Quilt!"

"Should've guessed." Jervis ducked the second ball, making his own and throwing it at the garish actor. "Looks like I'll have some fun anyway." It struck Dekker's light helmet, but he simply scraped it off and threw it back. "For someone with such awful dress sense, you're a good shot!"

"Thanks. Nice weather we've got, eh?"

Jervis dodged the next snowball. "Who did it? Captain Cold?"

"Nope. Weather Wizard. Went over to his studio and asked him to help a friend of mine out." Dekker nodded proudly and hid behind a building to find more snow. "Then again, it's only fair to everyone for us to have a white Christmas." He sprang out again, throwing another.

"Not everyone's happy," Jervis pointed out as he narrowly avoided it. "Jonny's staying indoors now. Knowing him, he'll get a drink or something to help warm himself up."

Dekker shook his head in mock disgust before charging out and missing his next shot. "Old sourpuss."

"Be fair," Jervis chided, aiming another snowball. "He has a good reason. Hope your friend likes it."

Dekker folded his arms proudly, recieving a shot to the chest thanks to his arrogance. "I think he does," he panted. I'll have to thank the Wiz for helping me out."

They stopped talking at that point, putting all of their energy into the game. Dekker darted and dodged, Jervis ending up the wetter of the two. His hat was soaked by snow - he wished he hadn't worn it. When they were done, they collapsed against the studio wall, both soaked to the bone and completely exhausted, with barely enough air in them to speak.

They wouldn't have had it any other way.


	19. The Old Guard

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**19. The Old Guard**

Karl Hellfern shifted in the chair outside his home, ignoring the protests of his old bones. Thankfully, it was a cool morning - he didn't like the heat. "All I can say about the new generation is that they have plenty of talent. Old Hugo Strange knew that. He took that Crane lad under his wing. He was a talented boy. Very eccentric, to put it nicely, but very good at what he did."

"I had the pleasure of being there during his first day on the job," Basil Karlo replied with a sigh. Although he wasn't frail, he had a weakness for rest, especially in his twilight years. "We didn't get on so well at the start, but I count him as a friend now." He laughed at an old memory."When he first came in, I mistook him for a hobo. That set him off - you saw the look on his face! - and he went all out on our poor extras. I think Paul Herold's a little nervous these days. Didn't stop him from marrying and having a boy."

Karl chuckled deep in his throat. "And all those new faces - when I worked there, our villains were mostly extras, and the concept of the professional supervillain had only just begun. Gerard Shugel, the Ultra-Humanite. I was the first 'professional' to work for that particular studio. When Crane arrived, there were only seven of us, not counting him. You, me, Hugo, Joker, Catwoman, old Tony Zucco (although he wasn't a 'supervillain' as the term is used today), and the Mad Monk. Now there's Otis, Pam, Waylon, Vic, Eddie, Harvey, and all kinds of people. Wasn't it something to live back then!"

"History being made," Basil agreed. "Crane's still working at the studio. In fact, I got a letter in the mail from him a few days ago. He says that there's a Christmas party taking place back there, and he's issuing me and a few other people from his past personal invitations. Oddly social of him."

"You're going then?" Karl asked, sitting up a little. "I would, but I'm feeling rather old and tired these days. I'd like it if you told me how Crane is doing. I've been swapping letters with Strange, who was his mentor. He says that Crane's finally figured out his act, and it shows in his attitude. He's a little softer to everyone else - only a little, mind, and he'll get upset if you tell him that."

Basil smiled, starting to get up. "That's the Jonny Crane I knew and roomed with. Couldn't be kind without a fuss. His letter was full of hemming and hawing until he finally got to the point. 'Course I'm coming. I missed him."

"I'd be coming, too, if I didn't feel so old." Hellfern gently patted Basil on the back. "Good luck out there, old friend. Say hello to Mr. Crane and all of the newcomers for me."

"I'll be sure to." Basil, for someone of his age, didn't have trouble getting into the doorway. "Mind if I borrow a pen and paper?"

"Not at all," Hellfern replied with a nod. "I don't want to trouble an old friend."

Basil repeated the nod before disappearing into the house. Once inside, he quickly found a desk, got the materials, and started to write a reply letter to Crane.

_Dear Mr. Crane, _

_You're right that it's been a while since we've spoken. I read over your offer and I'd like to let you know that I accept..._


	20. Deck the Halls

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**20. Deck the Halls**

The Mad Scientists' Union, with the exception of Jonathan Crane and Lex Luthor, had decided to decorate their meeting room. Because he was so old and shrivelled from years of comic work (as he put it), Gerard Shugel decided to watch the others, despite being a massive gray-furred ape and possibly the bulkiest person there. Lex's deputy, a hunched old mad scientist named Doctor Sivana, was mildly annoyed by this - he was no spring chicken himself - but reluctantly agreed. After all, he had plenty with him already. Henry Ross, a slim, bearded man and a long-time member, had brought several buckets of his green "Professor Radium" paint. Mr. Mind, being only a little green worm with a speaking-machine around his neck, relegated himself to giving orders. Ross seemed remarkably comfortable with doing most of the work, at least at first.

"A little to the left," instructed Mr. Mind, an antenna twitching. "Do try not to splash the paint. We'll know if you do."

"'Course you will," Ross muttered with some irritation. "It _glows_." He almost slipped from the ladder he was perched on. "Hope I don't break something doing this."

"Don't worry," Professor Zoom, one of the newer members, remarked coolly. "We have a doctor here just in case."

"I'm not _that_ kind of doctor, you buffoon!" hissed Sivana. "Watch yourself, Henry."

"I'm trying to," muttered Ross, getting his grip back. "So, I'm supposed to paint a Christmas tree? In my green paint?"

Mr. Mind nodded, the radio around his neck buzzing. "That's the plan, yes. Good work so far."

"Thank you." Ross sighed. He couldn't believe that he was taking orders from someone less than a hundredth of his size. Then again, Mr. Mind was much more polite in his bossiness than Luthor would be, and the only other person nimble enough to shimmy up ladders like this would be Crane. He couldn't really see Jonathan Crane, proud almost to the point of arrogance, scuttling around and playing with paint. Crane's crow, Craw, was off "helping" Flannegan and the boys with ornaments.

He managed, with some effort, to paint something of an outline for the tree by finding a balance. He hung back for a few moments to admire his glistening work. Some had gotten on his hands and clothes, but that was inevitable. He could get rid of it.

Dipping the brush back into the bucket, he started to fill in the outline. For a few moments it went well, but he was startled by a shout. He dropped his bucket, which splashed glowing paint all over the floor. "What is it this time, Mr. Mind?" For such a little worm, Mr. Mind's voice could be terrifying when magnified.

"Just wanted to warn you that you were painting outside the line."

"Right, then," Ross muttered. "You do it next time, you invertebrate." He sprang down to gather another bucket and crawled back up. "At least turn down the volume on that radio you've got."

"Sorry about that." Mr. Mind twitched his head, asking Sivana to fix the device around his neck. "It's old and doesn't always work as well as it might."

Trying to block out the conversation, Ross finally managed to finish filling in the outline of the painted tree. He hung on the ladder for a moment, panting.

"Glad that's done with," he panted, wiping a bit of sweat off of his brow and preparing to jump off of the ladder.

Sivana raised a hand, and Ross scowled.

"Oh, what is it now?"

"Not so fast, Professor Radium. You still have the rest of the wall to paint."


	21. Open Fire

**Christmas with the Rogues**

**21. Open Fire**

The only major rule centering around Christmas at the studio was to keep a close eye on Garfield Lynns. Fire, even off the job, was a source of deep fascination to Firefly. He delighted in watching it, guarding it, and, most importantly, spreading it. There had been one too many close incidents with him in the past. One year he'd tried to burn down the tree. The next he'd tried to pull the fence from the fireplace. That was why Cameron van Cleer volunteered to watch Garfield for the one thing that he was useful for during the holidays.

Someone had to cook the turkey, and with Garfield's mastery of fire he was the very best, like it or not.

"Right, then," Cameron began, a hand on the pyromaniac's shoulder. "Remember, only light the fire when I tell you to. No spreading it. We do not want to burn down the kitchen."

"Not even a little bit?" Garfield asked, a little disappointed. "But it's so cold in here. I hate the cold."

"Then I'll turn the heating on, Garf. If you light any fires off of the oven, I guarantee that you'll have people mad at you." To be honest, he thought that he wasn't the best guy for the job of keeping a handle on Garfield. People like Jonathan Crane or Waylon Jones would be able to deal with the other man more easily if he lost control. Firefly wasn't a particularly skilled fighter off the job, even though he had a short temper and liked talking tough.

"Let 'em come. I'm not afraid of anybody." Garfield folded his arms and tried to look brave.

But he was, Cameron knew. He had been wary of approaching Jonathan ever since a certain Cross-Studio Festival. Not because of Crane himself, but because the thin man had connections among the horror-themed actors. And almost everyone, with the exception of Otis Flannegan, was careful around Killer Croc.

"Look," Cameron sighed, "just cook the turkey already. We're all starving. Turn on the oven and let it heat up."

"No flamethrowers?"

Cameron put a hand to his head. "No, Garfield. No flamethrowers." Not that there was any concern - the crew had hidden Garfield's flamethrower, as well as every match, torch, and potential firestarter in the studio. This Christmas, the film crew was being especially careful. Better safe than sorry. Too many close calls in the past.

Garfield sighed, setting the oven and watching the heat's effects on the turkey with some fascination. Cameron paced around, keeping a close eye on him. Out of everyone in the studio, although he knew people who would take offense at this remark, Firefly was the most terrifying person he knew. They were friendly, which was even more scary in some ways. Just the way the other actor hunched and watched the dancing flames gave him the chills.

"All right," he said finally, "that's enough." He reached over and turned off the fire, seeing Garfield's disappointment. "Honestly, Garf, you have to learn some self-control. Trying to burn down the studio will not help people like you. Just the opposite." He faced Lynns, deciding to end this before it began. "Promise me that you'll try to control yourself at dinner. _Please_. For my sake."

Garfield Lynns looked around, set the turkey on the table, and shrugged. He took Cameron's hand and shook it warmly. "Sure. Why not?"


End file.
